


Helping Hand

by Jaune_Chat



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Massage, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 09:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/pseuds/Jaune_Chat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-battle, Natasha knows just what Clint needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [avengerkink for the prompt:](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/4305.html?thread=3629265)  
> Clint/Natasha or Tony/Steve, Massage  
> One of the people above have rough day and get a massage from one of the others.
> 
> I'd prefer it to not be an established pairing i.e. they are either just friends or there's UST.
> 
> I'd be ok with the massage leading to sexytimes but it doesn't have to.

She knows what he needs. Just because Clint is usually high above the battlefield doesn't mean they don't take a toll on him as much as any of the others. He's always watching, eyes darting, head swiveling, taking it hard if he misses any incoming Doombots or sneaky minions. And while too much gunfire can leave Natasha with numb hands, that's not her primary weapon. She's taken plenty of enemies down with her Widow's Bite, or her legs, or just a few well-chosen words. Clint's bow, on the other hand, is a part of him.

And he definitely overdid it today. She can see him rubbing the back of his neck slowly, reluctant to bring his arms up even though he can barely move his head. Despite the armguards and protective gloves, his hands are red and white from repeated firing, and she can see the pressure marks on his shoulders from toting around his quiver.

"Sit," she announces, pointing at his bed. He doesn't even seem surprised that she's in his room; he stopped worrying about her ability to bypass his locks years ago.

"I'm not gonna be staying upright, fair warning 'Tasha." His hair is still damp from a shower, his skin glowing from the heat of the pounding, massaging showerheads Stark had in all the bathrooms.

"Then don't."

He doesn't, flopping on the bed and gingerly stretching his arms out. He manages not to flinch when Natasha's oiled hands make contact with the knots on his shoulder blades, and doesn't quite stifle a groan when her strong fingers start to work them back to something resembling muscles and not harpstrings.

"I forgive you," he mutters into his pillow, as she works up to his bruised trapezius muscles and then down to his deltoids. "Everything you ever did."

"Don't get carried away; the video I'm taking now is going to be worth a small fortune to the right parties." Clint snorts underneath her touch, and relaxes further. Those hard neck muscles finally subside into flesh instead of steel cables, and his arms (Natasha healthily admits to herself they're a rather lovely aspect of his body) seem to turn into butter in her hands.

"Worth every second on YouTube," he says. Natasha grins outright and moves down to his forearms and hands. There's bruising here under his forearm guard from the repeated snapping of the bowstring (padding could only do so much when the battle had gone on so long), and surprisingly uneven callus on his fingers, differing from his right hand to his left.

Clint was squirming slightly as she massaged the remaining cramps, his breathing speeding up a little, a flush spreading on the back of his neck.

She thinks about quipping about his hands being erogenous zones, but instead just moves one hand to rub the red away until he calms down again. Adrenaline does crazy things to a body; Natasha should know, she used to take advantage of that all the time in her work. Clint curls his hand around hers as she slows, twining his fingers with hers and gripping hard. Despite everything he's done today, he's got a grip like iron.

"Thanks." He tugs her hand closer, lifting himself up enough to drop a kiss on the back of it before letting go. The red is mostly gone from his neck, but he's not exactly lying flat on the bed anymore.

"Next time, my turn," he says, voice sounding stronger than it had in an hour.

Natasha trails her hand away slowly, making the red flare again, and watches Clint collapse into the mattress again, spine lax, arms and fingers splayed out loosely against the sheets. Right now he's totally defenseless against her, a trained assassin he was once supposed to kill, and the sight is an arresting one.

"I'll take you up on that," she says, and smiles unseen.


End file.
